"I can't let him get away. Ratty, did you bring your car?."

Ratty: Yes! "Let's roll in."

Turtle stands up and a dizzy spell causes him to roll back on his heels.

Kelso opens the door of the car. "Sure you're okay?" she asks. "I've had worse." Ignoring the blood dripping down his arms and the army of butterflies that have taken up residence inside his skull, Turtle slides into the back driving seat. Kelso places a peck on his cheek before closing the door.

Turtle tells ratty that they're gonna follow the receding tail lights. "Try not to be too obvious about it." says Ratty. As they pull out, they notice the cab that Mr. Vulture left running.

"Slow down, Olaf the Turtle!" Bruno, the ratty with a face only a mother could love, is in the seat next to Turtle with his claw-like hands clamped to the dash and his misshapen lips peeled back from crooked teeth. "Slow down!" he cries over the belching exhaust.

Turtle cups a hand to his ear. "What's that?"

He leans across and screams. "I said slow down!"

"You want him to get away?" Turtle shouts and motion to the cab in front where Vulture guy is in. The vultures cab disappears from view. Turtle peels around the nearest corner in pursuit.

The powerful four cylinder engine growls as Turtle stamp the pedal to floorboard, and the steering wheel vibrates in his hands. The needle on the coupe's speedommeter trembles at sixty-five miles an hour.

He jerks the wheel left and the 1921 Mercer Series 5 Raceabout fishtails around a corner with the squeal of rubber on asphalt. As he slides around the corner into the left hand lane, his headlamps illuminate the front of a delivery truck coming right at 'em. He straightens out the wheel, jerking the car back into the right lane in time to narrowly avoid the oncoming truck. The driver honks and hurls a curse out the open window as he rocket pasts.

The wind whipping at his face is going to leave bright red patches on his cheeks and the tip of his nose. Despite the sharp chill a grin splits his face. He weaves through traffic, pushing the racing engine to its limit, enjoying the feel of the motor as it responds to his commands, the loud rumble of internal combustion and the thrill of the chase.

The lead taxi stops at a run-down two-story building of sagging brick and mortar with barred up windows.

Turtle slows down and stops a block away.

Mr. Vulture climbs out and mounts the steps to the front door, throws a look over his shoulder and then disappears inside.

"Wait here to keep an eye out." Turtle tells Ratty.

The building is in a sad state. Turtle can see why the bars were added. Most of the windows on the ground floor have been smashed out. The rooms beyond, far as he can see, are empty and dark. Mr. Vulture might live here, or he might be squatting. One thing is sure-he's the only one living here.

Turtle does a lap around the building. There is no back door, just a fire escape too high to reach. He gets back to the front in time to see a light come on in an upstairs window. At least he knows where vulture is. This time Turtle has no intention of letting Mr. Vulture get the drop on him.

Turtle does another circuit of the building, pulling at all the bars until he finds one with some play. It's covered in rust and groans when he tugs. It will take some work.

He spits into his palms, rubs them together, takes hold of the loose bar and braces himself foot against the wall. The veins in his neck stand out and his face turns red. The bar first bends, thern comes free with a loud twang. He flies backwards, rebounds off the building next door and end up on his knees with little stars twinkling in his vision. A goose egg has sprung up on the back of his noggin, but he has got an opening and the bar will make a decent weapon.

With a grunt of effort he gets back to his feet and creeps around the corner of the building. He stays low, taking long strides. The window is open a few inches. When the stars leave his brain, headed back to their celestial orbit, he hoists himself through the window. Jagged shards of broken glass rip at his coat and his pant legs, taking some flesh as well. He drops through the other side into an empty room with high ceilings and a cold fireplace.

The hardwood floor is covered in a thick layer of dust. Cobwebs festoon the corners. He knocks the dust off his coat, climbs to his feet and has a look around. A ghostly apparition hovers in a dark corner. He gives a yell, leaps back and raises the rusty bar in defense, as if that would do any good against a non-corporeal being.

For a moment his heart pounds blood into his ears. Then he realizes the ghost is actually a grandfather clock covered over with a white sheet. A laugh works its way up from his chest. He shakes his head, breathes a sigh of relief and from the corner of his eye sees a shadow detach itself from the deeper gloom.

Something crashes into the back of his skull and the lights go out. When he comes to, his skull is pounding and his mouth is filling with blood. He waits there a moment, groaning.

As Turtle swims up from unconsciousness, an army of angry bees built a nest inside his head while he was out. They are in there right now, buzzing and stinging and generally making life miserable. Being awake is a mistake. He wants to go back into the soft black of oblivion, but a tiny warning bell is jingle-jangling at the back of his mind.

There is a light on. The glow penetrates the membranes of his closed eyelids. Water drips and chains clink. The air is cool. He remembers infiltrating the Vulture's hide out and getting the back of his skull bashed in as a result. The pain at the back of his head flares in response. It takes some effort, but he peels open one eye.

He is in a basement and he has been trussed like a Thanksgiving Day turkey. His hands are tied together and suspended overhead by a simple metal hook passed through the ropes. His feet dangle an inch off the stone floor. The light is coming from a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. The decorator went for a look that says gothic castle meets fetish club. Mr. Vulture succeeded.

Chains, whips, knives and other unpleasant looking instruments adorn the walls. Dark red spots stain the floor. At least it's not Turtle's blood all over the floor. Not yet anyway.

He'll have to think fast if he is going to get out of this one. Before he can formulate a plan, the door swings open.

The Vulture comes in with a leather paddle in hand and asks, "Who are you?"

"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past" Turtle tells him. "You've been naughty."

Vulture man laughs, gives the leather paddle a few practice swings, making whooshing sounds through the air. "You're a funny guy. But if you don't tell me what I want to know, I'm going to hurt you. A Iot."

One look around the makeshift dungeon is enough to convince Turtle he means business. He holds the paddle up for Turtles inspection. It's a well-made piece of equipment. Thick leather and solid stitching. Probably handmade. Was it too much to hope for a cheap, mass produced Halloween prop? He slaps it into his open palm with a loud thwack. "What do you seek to know?" Vulture asks.

"How do I get out of here?" Turtle asks. Vulture fixes him with his gaze. "You don't."

"Alright, I'm a detective."

He nods. "And why were you following me?"

Turtle snort as if that should be perfectly obvious, but he only waits for Turtles answer.

"Because you tried to kill lady Kelso with that spell" Turtle says.

He looks at Turtle like Turtle is the dangerous psychopath in the room. "You think I brought down that scaffolding? I have every intention of killing Miss Kelso," he says, "but not untill I bring her back here to have my.. fun with her."

A horrible weight settles in Turtles stomach as he realize Vulture's no sorcerer, just an everyday, run-of-the-mill serial killer. He didn't kill Steve or kidnap the daughter of theatre owner. Which means whoever tried to drop that lighting fixture on Kelso's head is still out there.

He reads the expression on Turtle's face and says, "Someone else is trying to kill her? Well, that's the least of your worries. I don't suppose there are too many people who will miss a lowly private eye. I can take my time with you" Held takes a curved blade from the wall and tests the edge with his thumb nail. "I don't normally go for guys."

"Me neither" Turtle tells him.

He places the edge of the blade against Turtle's left cheek. "Let's see how funny you are without your face."

Turtle screws his eyes shut and prepares himself for the searing pain of the blade dragging across his skin, opening his face up like the zipper on a child's backpack. A fine mess he got himself into. He's a killer, but not THE killer. Kelso is out there right now, totally exposed, no protection, while he's about to get an amateur facelift.